


Dream Team

by SylvanWitch



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Dream Sex, Magic Made Them Do It, Multi, Mutual Masturbation, Team Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:53:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21707773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylvanWitch/pseuds/SylvanWitch
Summary: Witches make them do it.  Sort of.
Relationships: Bruce Banner/Thor, Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 4
Kudos: 43
Collections: Spicy Advent - Multi-fandom Porn Advent Calendar 2019





	Dream Team

It’s not that Steve had never thought about Thor like _that_. Yeah, he loves Tony, and he’s nothing if not loyal, but Steve has eyes, and there’s a lot of Thor to see.

So, yes, objectively speaking, Steve guesses he’d considered what Thor might be like in bed.

He just never figured he’d find out.

Certainly, he hadn’t planned on ending up in bed with Tony, Thor, Bruce, Nat, and Clint.

And what a bed—like the kind of thing you find in the cartoon fairytales, the ones where all seven dwarves or three pigs or three bears and a blonde or…

Steve recognizes panic rambling when he hears it in his own head.

“Magic,” Thor rumbles from Steve’s immediate left, and he really wishes the thunder god would…not. Because when Thor speaks, Steve can feel it behind his ribs and in his belly and in other, uh, places.

Places that are getting interested in ways that are about to go from uncomfortable to downright mortifying.

Tony clamps a hand to Steve’s thigh, and Captain America doesn’t jump—of course not, he’s a national icon of strength and fortitude, and something like his boyfriend’s hand on his thigh isn’t going to get a reaction out of him.

He also doesn’t suck in a breath so fast that he chokes on air and ends up a runny-eyed, snot-nosed, hacking mess.

“Smooth,” Clint intones from somewhere far to his right, and he’s glad he can’t see Clint’s face (both because of the distance and because his eyes haven’t quite cleared yet).

“Shut up,” Tony shoots back in that friendly-not-friendly singsong he gets about a half-second before he unleashes a repulsor on you.

“It’s okay,” Tony murmurs, leaning close to Steve on the right. “Just close your eyes.”

“And think of ’Merica,” Clint advises, laying on the cornpone.

“I will kill you in your sleep,” Tony promises, tone the same one he uses as a glad-handing billionaire dunning money from rich strangers at ritzy parties. A meaty thwap indicates that Nat has expressed her agreement with Tony in a decidedly physical way.

Clint grunts and then shuts up.

Tony whispers, “Close them,” to Steve again, and Steve complies, trying to ignore the icy squirming of nerves in his guts.

He feels a familiar hand stroking his right thigh—Tony—and then an unfamiliar one on his left, which can only be Thor’s. Even as he tenses up, Tony whispers, “Relax, baby, let it happen.”

“Wh—?” he tries to say and is embarrassed to have to clear his throat and try again. “Why is this happening?”

He feels Thor’s shrug against his shoulder—and when did the god cuddle up to him so close?—and then that chest-thrumming rumble comes again, this time accompanied by a wash of heat against his ear as Thor says, in a hoarse sotto voce, “We’ve been cursed.”

“Best curse ever,” Clint snickers, and this time there’s a different sound, as of one body landing on another, and then muffled protests as Nat, apparently deciding to get in on the action, silences Clint in a more creative way.

“Uh,” there’s a nervous mutter from somewhere past Thor on Steve’s left, and he doesn’t have to open his eyes to see Bruce’s face looking pained and uncertain.

“Ah,” Thor murmurs, tongue snaking into Steve’s ear and making him yelp a little and shake a lot. Tony’s hand on his thigh has moved upward at the sound, and Steve can’t help it when he spreads his legs a little, surprised to suddenly discover that he’s naked.

“I’ll be back,” Thor promises, but Steve is a little beyond caring at this point because Tony has wrapped his hand around Steve and is working with the heady focus he gets around complex problems. 

Steve gasps, “Tony,” and reaches over to find Tony’s cock ready and willing, jumping a little in Steve’s hand when he begins to match Tony stroke for stroke.

From somewhere to Steve’s left, he hears a thready moan from Clint and a low, spine-melting laugh from Nat. On his right, Bruce’s breathless little, “Oh,” is almost heartbreaking in its vulnerable surprise. Thor’s answering rumble shakes the bed, and Steve feels it in his cock, too, a gathering shudder and heat and behind his eyes the lightning of his orgasm as it breaks over him.

Steve bucks up into Tony’s touch, forgetting his mission of reciprocation, and comes in a blinding flash, shouting his lover’s name as the storm takes him over.

Beside him, Tony is murmuring, “Steve, oh, Steve, baby, please,” and Steve has just enough muscle memory to pull hard on Tony’s cock, rewarded for his effort when Tony bites off a cry and Steve feels the wet heat of his release on his hand and the thin skin of his wrist.

The smell of sex fills his nose, and Steve takes a long, deep draught of it, reveling in the sense of well-being that suffuses him, making his muscles heavy, pinning him in place as Tony settles beside him and, on his other side, Bruce releases a long, shuddering breath and Thor says, “Good,” just before a crack of thunder shakes the Tower.

From beyond Tony, Steve hears a little hiccupping sigh—Nat—and then, “Oh, yeah,” in an exaggerated drawl (Clint, of course).

The peace lasts only a few moments before Steve realizes something disturbing—he’s still achingly hard, despite the evidence of his orgasm cooling on his belly.

He opens his eyes, alarmed, and sees Tony hovering over him, amused smirk on his face, and hears, “Well, good morning, big guy. Oh, and you, too, Steve.”

Steve looks around wildly, sees that they’re in the bed they share in Tony’s suite, California-king-sized, sure, but not cartoon enormous.

The rest of the team isn’t with them, and Steve is clad in his usual boxer briefs, though his cock is doing its best to escape confinement, while Tony is wearing loose sleep pants and a wicked smirk.

“I thought—” Steve begins, and Tony nods knowingly.

“You thought we were having a team fuck-in, right?”

Steve feels his mouth drop open. “How did you—?”

“Same dream,” Tony answers just as there’s a knock at the door. Jarvis’ cultured, “Doctor Banner and Ms. Romanov are here to see you, sir,” suggests that they weren’t the only two to have this particular dream.

“Tell them to give us five minutes, Jarvis,” Tony orders, and then he snakes his hand under the waistband of Steve’s briefs and says, “I’ve got some unfinished business.”

“Witches,” Tony says, though he sounds less offended than amused.

“What?” Steve asks, but Tony tightens his grip, drawing his attention to a more pressing matter.

“Not now,” Tony says, not unkindly. “Could you maybe?” he asks.

“What?” Steve’s not to be blamed—his brain is still sleep-addled, and what little blood it was getting has been diverted for other uses.

Tony stills his hand and then squeezes again, rather more tightly than is strictly polite in these circumstances. Steve catches his lover’s look.

“Oh,” Steve says, and then, hand sliding under Tony’s waistband, “Oh!” more meaningfully. Steve grips his lover and gets with the program.

As they move toward a mutually satisfying conclusion, Steve closes his eyes, enjoying the familiar, building pleasure Tony’s touch always brings him. 

If Steve happens to imagine a larger body on his other side, a rumble of thunder behind his breastbone, a big hand on his thigh, well…

Witches, right?


End file.
